Tangibility
by alt-c
Summary: "Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he stayed up all night, was seated at the breakfast table."


I do not own or claim ownership of the characters or the world of Sherlock Holmes. Written for entertainment purposes only. Non profitable.

_~S&J~_

_"Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he stayed up all night, was seated at the breakfast table."_

_~S&J~_

"Sherlock?" Dr John Hamish Watson stood just outside the entryway of the kitchen. His hand's clutched tightly to the chipped wooden frame and most of his form hidden behind it. With his stance precarious and his eye's laden with sadness and disbelief, he peeled himself away from the chipped wooden frame to stare at Sherlock in wonder.

John couldn't speak. He couldn't move and it was hurting to breath, but he couldn't, he dare not, tare his eye's away.

Sherlock Holmes sat at the kitchen table as he used to all those years ago. A newspaper in his hand's, spread out before him like a map of wonder and an amused yet disdainful smirk on his supple lip's.

His teal suit was crisp with the odd, barely noticeable, creases here and there from being in the same position for so long. He had one leg crossed over the other. Ankle over knee. His fingers wrapped elegantly around the gray pages and the callouses on his hand's fresh from the violin.

John flinched as Sherlock turned another page.

John's blue cotton pajama bottoms and white t-shirt were stained with various things. Food that Mrs Hudson had practically force fed him. Toothpaste from repeatedly brushing his teeth through tears, to get the acrid taste of vomit and bile out of his mouth. Splatters of blue paint that he'd tried to use on his bedroom wall to cover up the marks he'd left in it from his fists.

John's hair was greasy, whereas Sherlock's was wispy and clean. John's hair fell limp and dull and Sherlock's framed his statuesque face with onyx, effortless curls.

John's hand's balled the fabric of the striped pajama bottoms as Sherlock turned yet another page and frowned.

The light from the window shone through in a spectrum of subtle and soft golds and peaches and yellow's of the rising sun. They cast ethereal glitters of shine through the room and around Sherlock. His eye's a softer, brighter shade of the various blue elements in them, the gray specks gleaming silver and the green a brilliant emerald.

The light did not reach as far as John. He stood in the shadow of the doorway like a mouse in a hole. His eye's misty and dim, his skin greying and sallow in comparison to the porcelain, smooth complexion of Sherlock's skin, that seemed to glow with youth and radiance, almost disguising his unending amount of timeless knowledge to those who didn't know any better.

The splattering of dust in the ray's reflected through the vases that once held vibrant sunflowers or tulips. Through the unwashed glasses, some half empty some full, but less in amount than the can's piled alongside them like old friends, to accompany them after their repetitive ordeal of tablet plus water that still edged dry down John's throat now and again, when the throb of alcohol in his skull was to much to put off.

Rinse, repeat.

Sherlock picked up his mug from the table and took a long drawn out swallow of steaming tea, his face becoming more relaxed and the frown dissipating in to the same serene and painfully familiar expression.

John wasn't sure what to do. Even if he did he wouldn't be able to get his limbs to move or vocal cords to work or his ability to form any kind of movement or sound or action.

John's feet were rough and dirty and the state of them were appalling. Hours of walking up and down the flat each day, evident on the soles of his feet. He'd had a shred of dignity left to at least cut his toenails once in a while to prevent snagging, but his fingernails were noticeably longer than before, with lines of dirt that he sometimes dug out with a toothpick or a pencil or the sharp edge of a paper clip when he needed a distraction.

Sherlock unfolded his leg's and refolded them on the opposite side. Right ankle over left knee.

Sherlock appeared palpable. Appearance however was one thing Sherlock had taught John was deceiving.

John wasn't stupid. He had, had dreams all too real for his liking that had him sweating and sobbing and shaking upon awaking to sweat soaked; tousled sheets and melancholy with bitter intervals of anxiety and the odd panic attack.

This didn't feel like a dream, but at the same time it did. Sherlock was dead. He couldn't be here, Even if John prayed to every deity and climbed every mountain for enlightenment or shaved his head or walked on hot coals or denied himself the pleasures of being a part of humanity however disappointing those in it could sometimes be, bringing someone back to life was impossible.

Sherlock closed the newspaper and set it down. He looked out the window and drummed his fingers silently on the table.

The kitchen looked too dirty for someone like Sherlock to be sitting in it. Even though the man himself wasn't what you'd call the tidiest of people.

It always perplexed John how someone so intelligent could be so purposely obtuse. That he knew so much but cared for few. John wasn't sure what he felt for Sherlock. Advanced friendship was a word he'd taken to calling it in his mind. There was no denying his feelings for Sherlock could never be just platonic and to suggest so would be absurd and more of a lie to himself than the one's he told himself at night when it was to cold and quiet in the flat.

John had, had other dreams. Dreams that had him waking up in similar fashions as the others but with more confusion and ache. The bittersweet brush of lip's, interlinked hand's and moans more like sighs in the drowning morning haze, made more beautiful than God's promises to Adam.

Sherlock's grace was something John envied. No matter what he did he moved like a magnificent Phoenix in glide with the flames behind his eye's and John under his wing.

John was afraid to look away.

John was afraid to keep looking.

Sherlock stopped drumming his fingers and flattened his palms to the table top. He pushed his strong and lithe form upwards. His full height intimidating and his aura nothing short or less than intoxicating.

He filled the room with his essence. His charm, his wit, hidden behind such a beautiful veil. He was beautiful.

Even with his head smashed in to the pavement and his blood laced in his hair and John heart in his hand's and John's world revolving around him.

John heard the faint hum of car's driving past and footsteps. The sound of life outside of his own while his remained here on a withered string in front of him.

Sherlock looked at him.

John gasped.

Beautiful.

Real.

So beautiful.

John's mouth opened to speak, but nothing left his parted lip's, chapped on broken promises.

He looked at Sherlock with all the question in his sad and tired eye's.

Finger's brushed the palm's of John's hand.

He _felt _them.

Sherlock's stare was soft yet scrutinizing and he shattered John's world all over again.

_~fin~_


End file.
